The heavy oak doors of The Hearthsong Inn swung silently inward. Caleb stumbled across the threshold, his mind a whirlwind of alley shadows and the scent of blood. He glanced at the glowing runes etched into the doorframe, the patterns now dead to him, sparking no interest.

  The warmth of the common room brushed against his skin but offered no comfort. The rich smell of roasting meat and stewed apples felt cloying, a scent from a world he no longer belonged to.

  The discord of a furious argument brought him up short, a sound that had displaced the usual cheerful din of patrons. The room had fallen silent. Every eye, from the grizzled adventurers in the corner booths to the merchants sipping wine at the bar, was fixed on the center of the floor. Two groups of armored men stood squared off, the space between them crackling with hostility.

  "This is an outrage, Bastian!" A powerfully built man in practical steel-and-leather armor slammed his gauntleted fist on a table. The wood groaned under the impact. "My consortium leased this delving window. We have a contract sanctioned under the Imperial Mandate for Provincial Assets!"

  The man he addressed was of a different breed entirely. He stood with the languid grace of a cat pretending disinterest in cornered mice. His armor was a work of art inlaid with silver filigree that crossed it like snaking vines. He barely glanced at the angry merchant, examining his manicured nails with an air of boredom. "A Gilded contract means nothing. My House's writ gives me precedence. The Deadfall Dungeon's cycle stops for no man, but it bends for nobility."

  Caleb’s [Savant of the Mind] kicked in and began processing the scene, cataloging details with steady precision. The angry merchant was Gilded, a man of wealth earned through commerce and risk. The men behind him stood like coiled springs, their gear functional, their expressions grim. They were here on business.

  Bastian and his retinue were Illuminet. Their pristine equipment gleamed under the runic lights, their cloaks embroidered with the crest of a soaring hawk on a field of gold. They stood like statues, radiating an unshakable confidence that came from a lifetime of privilege. They were here for sport. The merchant's livelihood was their playground.

  The abstract rules of this world, the ones he'd pieced together from Thal's memories and his short time on Veraxus, were playing out before him in flesh and blood. Inherited power versus earned wealth. The law of the land versus the whim of the elite.

  "My men have been preparing for weeks!" the merchant snarled, his face flushed with impotent rage. "We have supplies, contracts for the yield, schedules to keep! You can't just—"

  "I can," Bastian interrupted, his voice smooth and condescending. He finally looked up from his nails, peering at the merchant with open contempt. "And I have. Your provincial asset, as you call it, falls under the scope of my family's ancestral claims. The Mandate allows for such exceptions. You should examine the fine print." He smiled, a thin, predatory curve of his lips. "Or have your scribes explain it to you."

  The insult hung in the air, thick and suffocating. The merchant's hand dropped to his sword hilt. His team shifted, leather creaking as warriors found weapons.

  Caleb watched the standoff, the alarming scene cutting through his daze. The merchant wore the Gilded mark. The wealth he wore likely exceeded what Caleb could accumulate across decades of labor. Yet none of it protected him. Against Bastian's birthright, he stood as defenseless as the forager had against Cillian's knife.

  A harsh truth settled into his mind. Two forces governed this world: the strength of blood, and the strength of action. Silver served merely as currency. A spirit stone functioned only as passage. The true aim was to forge himself into something unbreakable—someone no grinning murderer in darkened streets or sneering aristocrat in tavern halls could reduce to prey.

  An abrupt hiss cut through the tension. "Thal! What are you doing just standing there?"

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  Corinne had rushed up from behind the bar, her face a mask of annoyance. She grabbed his arm, intending to pull him toward the kitchens, away from the brewing storm.

  She stopped dead.

  Her grip loosened, and her words died. Her eyes went wide, tracking from his pale face to his unfocused stare to the dark stains painting his tunic and preservation cloth. The annoyance melted into horror.

  "What… what happened to you?" Her voice was a whisper, all the previous irritation gone.

  The next few minutes were a blur. The simmering conflict in the common room faded to a distant murmur. Corinne's hand was firm on his arm, steering him through a side door, bypassing the kitchen's heat and clamor for the quiet of the back halls. The polished wood floors seemed to tilt beneath his feet. Soon, he was sitting on a hard-backed chair in Cassia's small office. The smell of paper, ink, and aged timber clashed with the metallic stench that still hung on him.

  Cassia stood before him. Her expression was a controlled mixture of calm assessment and maternal concern. She had seen trouble walk through her doors before. Corinne stood beside her mother, her fingers twisting in her apron, her face drained of color.

  "That blood, dear." Cassia's voice was soft but firm. "It's not yours, is it?"

  Caleb looked down at the stained preservation cloth lying in his lap like a dead thing. He shook his head. The dull throb Aurelian's potion had left behind his eyes was sharpening, each pulse a blacksmith's hammer against the anvil of his skull.

  "Who did this?" Corinne asked, her voice trembling.

  The image flashed behind Caleb's eyes—a pleasant, empty face, a warm and melodic voice, a cheerful whistle floating down a blood-soaked alley. "A man named Cillian," he said. His voice came out a dry rasp, throat feeling scraped raw. "He was… whistling."

  At the name Cillian, a flash of recognition sparked in Cassia’s eyes and her jaw hardened. She let out a quiet, weary sigh, the sound of a burden accepted long ago. Her expression settled as she reached down and took the blood-stained cloth from him. She folded it neatly, her movements betraying a grim familiarity with violence. She placed it in a shallow metal basin on her desk without another word.

  The pain continued to pound through his head. Each beat threatened to crack his skull open. But his body's agony paled against the memory of standing immobile while death walked past. He'd been a toy. A killer's brief entertainment, background scenery, something to dismiss. An object.

  He glanced up, meeting Cassia's sympathetic look. The pain made his vision swim, but his voice was clear. "I need an advance." The childish sound of his request was driven by the most adult emotion he'd felt since arriving in this world. "I… I can't ever be that powerless again. I have to get Awakened. I have to get strong enough to protect myself."

  Cassia studied his face for a long moment. She nodded once, a sharp, decisive movement.

  "Of course."

  She turned to a heavy wooden chest in the corner of the office, the kind bound with iron straps. She produced a small, intricate key from a chain around her neck and unlocked it. The lid opened with a quiet groan. Caleb watched, his breath held, as she reached inside. She counted out a stack of silver coins, their edges catching the light. She dropped them into a small leather pouch. It landed on her desk with a heavy thud.

  Relief washed over Caleb, so potent it nearly buckled his knees. It was a physical sensation, a loosening of muscles he hadn't realized were clenched into iron bands. It was followed immediately by a wave of bone-deep exhaustion. The adrenaline, the fear, the strange potion—it had all run its course, leaving him utterly spent. He grabbed the pouch. The first installment toward a life where no one could make him prey.

  "Get some rest, Thal," Cassia said, her voice softening again. "Gareth can manage without you for one night."

  Caleb nodded, a motion that sent a fresh spike of pain lancing behind his eyes. The room spun the moment he pushed himself up from the chair, and the floor seemed to drop away from his feet.

  "Easy," Corinne said, her hand immediately on his arm, steadying him. "I've got you. Let's get you to your cot."

  Words failed him. He just leaned into her support, letting her guide him from the office. The short walk felt like a marathon, each step a jarring impact that lanced his skull. Corinne guided him through the doorway, her steady arm the only thing keeping him upright. She helped him to the cot, then quietly pulled the door shut behind her.

  Caleb collapsed onto the thin mattress, the room spinning. Through the closed door the sounds of the inn became a muffled hum. His headache had transformed from rhythmic throbs into constant assault. Pain pulsed from the base of his skull, a pressure that squeezed out all other thought.

  He closed his eyes. The afterimage of a smiling killer was burned on the inside of his eyelids. Cillian's pleasant face, the flash of the dagger, the casual wink.

  His final conscious thought was a desperate plea formed in the agony.

  Just let it stop! Let me sleep. Tomorrow… tomorrow, I take my first step toward power.